


a minor madness

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [103]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Creepy, Doriath, Gen, Not that anyone here knows!, POV Outsider, Post-Chapter 6 of Angband, Ranching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 05:19:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19761409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: A man comes from the north to Doriath. He is an unusual sort, but seems to mean no harm.





	a minor madness

When the gentleman from San Francisco arrived at Doriath, he made no bones about his origin.

“I am lately traveled west,” he admitted, “And have found myself no great hand at panning for gold. I am, however, a blacksmith by trade, and was recommended here by every man down the coast who has ever eaten beef.”

Some thought he was too pale to have lived the rugged life he described, but no one denied that he was charming. He could tell a story like some men could skin an animal; efficient, almost beautiful, amid the necessary blood. He said he’d followed fur-trappers, as a boy. That part of his history seemed to suit him.

He had a gracious, fluid way with hands and smile, did this man from up north. His dark clothes were neat, even under the road-dust that clung to him. He listened to more stories than he told. He had a queer little habit of biting his lip in concentration or concern. These, among other reasons, were why was he was called a gentleman at all, even among the rough, raw-faced settlers of the southwest.

_Real peach of a man, real keen eye, silver-tongue, you see—livens up a long mess-table._

Annatar was his name, and he was often concerned. He asked many questions—had they a good herd this year? Any trouble with cattle thieves? How long had this one or that been in Elu Thingol’s employ? And not to be unfriendly, but could he be certain of his employment when he had not met the master of the land?

“Don’t you worry about that, my friend,” he was assured. “Anybody who works within a mile of the ranch—Thingol’ll be damn sure of your every credential. Out here he ain’t so chary, long as you keep in line.”

“Lots of workers don’t stay long,” added another. “It’s a fine place to make coin and move on, specially for a talented feller such as yourself.”

“I don’t know how long I’ll stay,” said Annatar, with a furrow in his brow. Some swore his faint accent was of French origin _—sounds as much like that moonfaced Daeron as any I ever heard_ , claimed one rancher, while another said Annatar spoke with the distinct flavor of an Irish brogue. _Regular mick. Good one, though._

Whatever Annatar’s story was, whatever his family or old home, Doriath was friendly to skill above all. By the end of a week no one denied that he marked cattle as efficiently as any that had come before him, and turned out a fine dozen of yokes besides.

“It’s a ghastly business,” Mablung observed, rebraiding his lasso over a plate of corn and flank steak. “I’ve always hated the stink of burning skin and hair.” Mablung had been in Doriath for five years. _He_ hadn’t come west for gold.

Annatar raised a brow, then grimaced almost an afterthought. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “At first. But one can get used to anything. Come and see.”

The next day Mablung found himself shaving palm-sized spots on the shoulders of a score of cattle, and trying not to stop his ears against the bellows and the sizzle. Annatar claimed his method left the cleanest, deepest mark; baring the skin before application.

“They’ve forgotten the pain almost at once,” Annatar mused, when the latest victims had been untrussed and herded off back to pasture. “Hand me that hammer, would you?”

He had a bandage around one hand, and moved it a little stiffly, even after a week’s time. No one asked him about it.

They were, after all, men.

Among the ranks of Doriath’s workers, Thingol’s daughter was as well-thought-of as any man’s saint or mother. For a time, Thingol’s women were no more than a whispered rumor— _exotic_ , some ventured, but those were quickly hushed.

When Melian was first sighted arm-in-arm with her husband, her smooth dark hair and unfamiliar features created a stirring debate about _beauty_ among men who had long been content to pore over faded daguerreotypes and lecherous woodcut prints. One rider, recently arrived, muttered a foul word under his breath. No one knew who reported the story to Thingol. All anyone knew was that the rider was found the next morning hogtied and bruised black and blue, at the gates of Doriath. Looped round his sweating neck was a warrant for his prompt execution, should he ever return within fifty miles of the place.

Elu Thingol made his own laws.

With such precedent, fair Luthien was revered out of fear more than anything else. But in time, and given her propensity for slipping the noose of her father’s guards to join the ranks of his workers, she won hearts as easily as another girl might have plucked sun-bled poppies.

 _A right angel_ , _our Californian princess_ , _the flower of—_

“Who is she?” Annatar asked, two weeks in. He ate his steak bloody-rare. His pale lips were stained red. Some of the men found the look of him unsettling, but he could do the meanest impression of any two-bit overseer, any stuffy New Yorker, and though he did not laugh, he grinned as if the company brought him enjoyment.

“She comes by twice-monthly, if she can. Saturdays. She brung the sort of stuffs we don’t get but for trips into town,” Mablung said. “Writing paper, mostly. Soap. She’s a sweet girl. Almost holy.”

Mablung would say later that he half-expected Annatar to stay forever, what with the way he looked at Luthien. She liked to meet new workers, and though the thought of branding cattle made her recoil with a pinch of pain between her dark-winged brows, she entered the blacksmith’s shed bravely, not shying from the branding yard beyond.

“I hear you have joined us this last week,” she said to Annatar. He was stooping over the anvil, but straightened tall at her voice. Mablung stayed close by her; he knew and was trusted by Thingol. He liked Annatar well enough, but one just didn’t take chances with Luthien.

When Annatar turned, standing tall, he set down the iron he was mending. In the forge-light, his hair was still too fair—almost white, though Mablung was sure he was still a young man.

“I did,” Annatar said, and he bowed.

 _A gentleman for certain_ , Mablung would tell the others that night. _Bowed as courtly as a prince in a ballroom._

 _You ain’t never been in a ballroom,_ scoffed his friends. _You’re a Missouri rat._

 _True enough_ , Mablung said, and lit up his pipe.

“Your hand,” said Luthien. “Oh dear, may I see it?”

With care, the bandage was unwound. There was an ugly burn, deep across the palm. Annatar did not move at all as her gentle finger probed the swollen flesh around it.

“Sir,” she murmured. “You were most unlucky.”

“I do not think so,” Annatar answered. The tendons of his throat twitched nervously. Mablung smiled his sympathy, but only to himself.

(There _was_ something not quite right about Annatar’s eyes, cat-yellow as they were, but could a man help his eyes?)

“I shall tend to it,” Luthien offered, “If you would let me.”

Mablung rolled his straw brim in his hands. “I think you should meet with him, sir,” he said.

Daeron translated.

Thingol inclined his head. “Very well,” he said, also through Daeron, “Send him along.”

Thingol trusted Mablung, after all.

“The _senor_ wants to meet you,” Mablung announced, over their usual dinner. He was thinking about Luthien tying off the blacksmith’s hand in soft linen. Of the herbed salve she had daubed over the angry red flesh. Of the way that Annatar had not so much as blinked as he watched her bent dark head. Mablung wasn’t jealous—he had a sweetheart in Missouri—but one just didn’t take chances with Luthien.

“The _senor_?” Annatar’s smile followed his eyebrows, as usual.

“It’s an honor,” Mablung told him. Not a lie; it could be an honor indeed.

Annatar was gone without a trace the next morning.


End file.
